


Found

by Kangoo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 09:47:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20776538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: Regulus’ fourth year starts with a door slamming shut and the smell of smoke clinging to the walls of the house.





	Found

**Author's Note:**

> is this finished? no. am i ever going to finish it? probably not. so... you're getting it as is. sorry.

Regulus’ fourth year starts with a door slamming shut and the smell of smoke clinging to the walls of the house.

Sirius is gone, burned off the tapestry and the memory of the family as soon as he stepped over the threshold of their ancestral home with his suitcase in tow. By then the brothers had drifted apart, the chasm between them dug deeper by Sirius’ distaste for his less rebellious sibling, too deep for Regulus’ attempt at placation to ever hope to mend it. They’d been vaguely familiar strangers at best and petty, bitter rivals the rest of the time, ignoring each other one moment and at each other’s throat in the next. They went weeks without exchanging a single words. Regulus doesn’t miss him. He _doesn’t_.

(If he was honest with himself, he’d say he does. He’s been missing Sirius for years. Ever since his brothers was strong enough to walk out of their family’s shadow and didn’t think to drag him along. But there’s no one Regulus won’t lie to, not even himself.)

The problem is everyone else seems to think he does. Their dark eyes follow him around, watching, waiting for the last heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black to follow in his brother’s footsteps. They don’t get that he’s not his brother anymore — there aren’t any footsteps to follow. Their — _his _mother saw to that.

It makes him… uncomfortable. Like insects crawling under his skin, a red-hot iron pressed against his neck where the attentive eyes of his cousins settles — watching, waiting.

They spent years being told they’re so similar, Sirius and him. No surprise everyone expects him to make the same heel-face turn.

Solitude never bothered him before, but it takes a whole new color when he’s not the one keeping his distances — _they are_. He’s lonely now, lost in a snake pit, unable to reach out in fear of being bitten. Some of the Slytherins aren’t all bad, but in those times… what’s to differentiate them from the rest of them, venom and all? They all excel at survival. Helping him would be an unforgivable risk to take when he’s not even sure to survive long enough to inherit the Black estate.

Merlin, it’s such a mess.

So he distances himself further. He does what Slytherins do best: he endures, he bids his time. He _survives_.

Sometimes that means fading into the castle’s shadows between classes like a ghost. Sometimes that means listening to Death Eaters exchange whispered, feverish arguments of blood purity in the dark, playing along when they expect him to. And sometimes it means stumbling deep down the meandering dungeons corridors to have a panic attack in a dark corner, far from any prying eyes.

He’s fine. He’s coping. He’s surviving. It’s all any of them can ask for.

He crumbles against a damp stone wall, the cold immediately seeping through his robes and sending shivers down his spine. His chest is tight, his vision darkening all too quickly as his breath comes out short and panting. He curls around his bent legs, forehead pressed against his knees, nails digging in the flesh of his arms. He screws his eyes shut, tries to swallow through the knot in his throat—

Sinks into the panic, head first.

His world narrow to the space between his knees and under the curtain of his hair, the white-knuckled grip he keeps on his arms, the all-too-familiar burn of painstakingly dragging air in and out of his lungs. He doesn’t get enough, it’s never enough—

His own heartbeat is deafening, hammering in his ears and smothering everything else, even the ragged rhythm of his breathing. Still, distantly, he can hear something. A voice, maybe. Footsteps. He can’t tell for sure — all he knows is that someone is here, someone is _getting closer_, and there’s nothing he can do but freeze and wait.

_Breathe_.

The thought comes out crystal clear and calm in the maelstrom of his panicking mind. The palm of a hand settles on the nape of his neck, the unexpected contact sending a cold shock through his system. He chokes on a breath, deafened by his own heartbeat drumming in his ears and unable to do anything but freeze and wait.

The palm of a hand settles on the nape of his neck, the unexpected contact sending a cold shock through his system. He chokes on a breath, muscles locking.

_In_.

A finger falls on his skin. Another. A third, a fourth, a fifth.

_Out_.

The fingers lift off his skin, one after the other, and the purpose of the contact finally pierces through the fog in his mind.

_In_.

Regulus attempts to follow the slow, measured tapping of fingers against his neck. He gasps for air, forcing his lungs to cooperate, and only feels more lightheaded for it.

_Out_.

The voice — because it is a voice more than a thought, although it could easily pass as such to the less paranoid — remains collected and uncaring, repeating the same two words again and again as his breath shudders out of him and he inhales again, barely more controlled.

Time passes in the same manner, _in_ and _out_ and fingers counting seconds against his skin. Eventually his heart slows from its jackrabbit rhythm and feelings come back to his limbs, breath ragged but regular.

He doesn’t want to look up. He wants to curl up so small he’ll disappear. But Blacks don’t run away from their problems. They face their fate, even when it’s a suitcase at the door and screaming voices at every family dinners.

He lifts his head, quickly scrubbing traces of tears from his cheeks. _Scowl, sweetheart,_ Beatrix thrills in his memory, _the whole world is watching_.

The sight in front of him stops him dead in his track.

It’s not one of his cousins, sent after him in a misguided sense of family obligation. It’s not a naive first year, and even less so a benevolent student from another house who just so happened to walk in on him.

It’s… Snape.

Snape’s in fifth year, and he hates Regulus almost as much as he does Sirius, it sometimes feels like. That’s about all Regulus knows about him. He’s secretive, brilliant but always quiet about it, and he doesn’t talk to anyone He doesn’t _like_ people, and he really doesn’t seem like the type to comfort a random kid freaking out in a dark corridor.

Even now he looks disinterested as he crouches in front of Regulus, arms crossed over his bent knees.

There’s a moment of silence as they both take stock of the other. Regulus finally swallows back his pride long enough to choke out a “Thanks”, and he cringes at the way his voice waver.

Snape pauses. “… Sure,” he replies awkwardly, rising to his feet. He takes a few step, stops as if about to talk, and finally walks away without another word.

Altogether, their interaction lasted no more than two minutes, if not counting Snape _talking him out of a panic attack._

Doesn’t mean Regulus forgot about it.

Doesn’t mean he didn’t think about it regularly from then on, _‘_why’s swirling in his mind and going nowhere.

And if Regulus became somewhat infatuated with the upperclassman after that, well. Who’s to blame him, if no one knows about it?


End file.
